Wild Rider (Bad Boy Bikers Book 2) Read Free Page A

empty plains between shopping centers and neighborhoods. They survived on garbage and small prey, often grouping up with coyotes and wolves. In previous nights, on her breaks, she'd seen dogs out there and wished she could help them somehow. Her apartment complex wouldn't allow pets, though.
    Now, why exactly she thought “stray dog” and “go see!” were good cooperative ideas was lost even on Helen.
    But it wasn’t a dog. In the rows of ambulances, she saw a tall man with a crowbar in his hands. He had used it to jam the ambulance door open. Blood dripped down from his shirt. He wore a leather vest covered with patches—a motorcycle gang member. From behind, all she could really tell about him was that he was large. Large enough for her to be scared.
    She froze. The way the lot was arranged, she had come across him almost suddenly, leaving only ten feet of clearance between him and her. The second she decided she would run—that’s when he snatched her.
    Nobody moves that quick , she thought, stunned at how he had turned and closed the distance in such a short time. One second he hadn't even been looking at her—and the next, his hands were on her.
    She looked up into his eyes. Time felt like it stood still. They were dark, swirling pools of emotion—not quite rage, not quite lust, not quite concern, not quite anything except for unique. For some time—maybe five seconds, though it felt like five hours—her body responded only to those eyes. A sensual, furious heat filled her, and her breath caught.
    It was Beretta.
    That man? That dream of a biker who had swept her off her feet, who'd been everything she'd wanted, who'd made her nights hotter than the sun and had made every last breath feel like she was breathing into him , who had spun her mind into a web of ecstasy so dense that she never thought she'd leave?
    He stood in front of her now, bloody, holding her, looking down at Helen with confusion and recognition both.
    Then, the stark, horrific reality caught up with her senses. This man had a hold of her, and he wasn't letting go. He was armed . He was huge . And no matter how handsome he was, he was covered in blood—and probably not from some benign accident either.
    “Helen?” He smirked. “I forgot you were a nurse.”
    Hearing his voice did all kinds of things to her body, none of them particularly complimentary given the danger he presented. Her heart raced faster, stomach fluttering like a bird's wings.
    “What are you doing here?”
    He glanced at the ambulance, broken open from his crowbar.
    “Come on,” he said. “You can do better than that.”
    “What is this?” she asked. “Did you follow me here? I moved away from Marlowe.”
    “I can see that,” he said. “I moved too. Unrelated. I had no idea you were here.”
    She didn't believe him. Why would she believe him? Why the fuck was he here ?
    He pushed her up into the ambulance and sat her down.
    “Stay.”
    His voice was like molten glass, hot and smooth. Not knowing why—a callback to one of their intense nights, maybe, when he'd blindfolded her and slid her hands into cloth restraints, teasing and pleasing her for hours, she obeyed. Immediately she hated herself for her easy submissiveness to him—but his tone had brooked no argument.
    If she ran...would he tackle her? Would he use the crowbar? How far would he go? He was bloody already, injured. A stupid, pitiable impulse took her—to treat the wound, see him healed.
    She'd always felt there was something she could heal in him. Her curse, to think that over and over, with man after man.
    There was nothing to heal with Beretta. Not truly. He was nothing but danger. You didn't heal danger—you ran from it.
    Just like she had.
    The sides of the ambulance were loaded down with storage bays, each one filled to the brim. Tearing through them, he opened up one of the emergency bags the paramedics used when they went on-site. Then he began to fill the bag up with everything he could